Page 1 of Small City Heart
Chapter One
Small City was a cutesy, idyllic town and also the subject of Patrick’s nightmares. Calling it acitywas a misnomer. A person could get lost in a city. They could blend in, be discreet, be one of a million faces.
No, Small City should have been called Nosy Tiny Village or Scary Little Township.
Most days, though, Patrick just grudgingly called ithome.
It didn’t matter how many years he’d lived elsewhere, how many apartments he’d rented, or how many different zip codes he’d claimed, Small City would always have him in its clutches. He was grudgingly making his return for the town’s annual Alumni Weekend and his ten-year high school reunion. At his mother’s request.
By the time Patrick had passed the open prairies, the grazing land, and the outskirts of town to reach Small City proper, his throat was tight with nervousness. He automatically drove to the main drag, Limestone Drive—an adorable, historic section of road with red-bricked streets and storefronts adorned with massive hanging baskets of Kansas wildflowers. At each end of the street, there were signs about tow away zones and special parking instructions for the big Alumni Weekend, but Patrick ignored them, skirting an A-frame warning sign with his old Triumph Bonneville, which he lovingly called Blue.
He maneuvered Blue into a spot in front of Ronnie’s Diner, named after his mom, Veronica, and a weird twinge of nostalgia hit him in the chest. He’d parked in this very spot hundreds—if not thousands—of times in his life, but today it was different. He was no longer a high school student bursting at the seams to get out of a stifling small town, and he also wasn’t the young adult grudgingly visiting his family over the holidays.
Maybe it was the resignation letter in his desk at work—the one he was waiting until after this weekend to send. He hadn’t felt at such loose ends in his entire adult life. It seemed significant that he found himself here, in his hometown, when his life was in such upheaval.
The door of the diner flew open and there was Mom, hands on her hips, apron covered in who knows what, and a scowl that could make most grown men cower.
Patrick’s fingers itched for his camera, wishing he could freeze her in time and place.
It was worth a shot.
“Mom. Don’t move,” he shouted.
He hitched his leg over Blue and ripped off his helmet. His long hair immediately blew into his eyes and mouth. He spit it out and tried to unzip his saddlebag before his mom got tired of his shit.
“Oh, give me a break,” she said. “I’m not going to stand here like a statue while you fiddle about. I have customers. Now get your ass over here and give me a hug.”
Damn it.She’d moved.
He slumped a little, abandoned his perfect shot, and skipped over the curb to hug his mother.
“Pattie,” she said, once he was in her arms, and tears almost choked him. He’d missed her. Missed the way she smelled like flour and how her voice could go from stern to warm in the space of a second.
Her breath shuddered, and she held him extra tight. It had been a hard couple of months.
This,this here, was why he was back. His mom needed a date, needed to not walk into the Alumni Weekend—Small City’s biggest social event—alone. So here he was.
She finally released him and held him at arm’s length. He wondered what exactly she was looking for. Was she trying to determine if he was safe and sound and whole? To check him out against the backdrop of Small City to see if he fit?
He’d always stuck out like a sore thumb in Small City. Too pretty, too artsy, too weird. But he’d learned recently how very isolating a big city could be, how one tiny mistake—all right, one massive mistake—could make a life there untenable. He’d thought running away to the big city had been the answer.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Come in, come in. I’ll get you some cornbread,” Mom said.
Patrick groaned. She knew how to soften him up. The diner hadn’t changed much since he was a child. It was a charming mix of country kitsch and art—mostly his—with red checked tablecloths, a daisy on every table, and a display case of cobblers at the register.
Mom pushed him into a chair at an empty table, and he waited patiently for her to feed him. There were two occupied tables, both with customers from the over-seventy set. They were either there for an early-bird dinner or a late lunch. A teenaged waitress was refilling their iced teas, and Patrick heard Kris Kristofferson playing faintly from the kitchen which meant Marjorie, his mom’s business partner and best cook, was here too.
Ten minutes later, his mom plopped a plate down in front of him. He jumped at the clatter, and his mouth immediately began to water. Chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and cornbread.
“Bless you, Mother,” he said. She leaned down so he could kiss her cheek, and he happily obliged. He’d never found chicken fried steak as good as hers in Chicago, which was probably a good thing. His wallet couldn’t exactly handle easily accessible chicken fried steak.
Once he’d cleaned his entire plate, kind of moaning over it like a lover, he skipped back outside to get his camera from his saddlebag.
When he was home, which admittedly had been less and less often over the last five years, he tried to take candids at the diner. One of the most beautiful images he’d ever taken was of his mom handing someone a milkshake. It was his favorite. She’d been laughing, and the light had been perfect coming through the large front window. She was such a beautiful, large-and-in-charge woman, no nonsense in the best way, and funny. She was always smiling and had the most contagious laugh. The picture was his mom distilled in a single image, and being back in the diner felt magical. Maybe he would capture something that great again.
An hour later, he was standing directly in the doorway of the diner, trying to get the perfect picture of his mom and Marjorie arguing about the best bierocks recipe—a fight they’d been having since the beginning of time—when a hulking man opened the door and smacked into him.
